


pulses can drive from here

by selinawrites



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, First Kiss, Fluff, Gratuitous English Slang, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, aziraphale is a keats stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 21:03:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20645648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selinawrites/pseuds/selinawrites
Summary: in which crowley is good at many things, but saying 'i love you' isn't one of them.(or, five times crowley didn't say 'i love you', and the one time he did.)





	pulses can drive from here

**Author's Note:**

> this was very fun to write.
> 
> title from lorde's '400 lux'

**1\. i'm here for you**

It’s dusk at the Ritz and there are an angel and a demon and all the time in the world. The night comprises of a pot of tea, now gone cold. There are two well-worn bottles of rum (though the angel prefers wine and the demon, whiskey.)

There is a lounge singer and a saxophonist, and two glasses of champagne. The demon Crowley is off on a tangent about something his companion wasn’t paying much attention to. The angel was much more interested with the way Crowley lifted the champagne glass up to his lips, bubbles bright and golden winking in the chandelier light and drunken up all in a moment’s worth of noncommittal observations and hollow promises.

Crowley says something about wanting to run away again. But there they are at the Ritz with people coming and going, but not them. There they are more alcohol than blood with rosy cheeks and wine stained lips. So, Crowley wants to run away but Aziraphale pays him no mind. The food is good and the company is better, so where else is there to run to?

* * *

It’s dusk at the Ritz by the time they’re leaving from their dinner because the angel had made time stop somewhere between their third drink and their fifth. Crowley is teasing Aziraphale about stopping time because  _ oh, it really does just muck things up.  _ There’s a swell of laughter and the ethereal figures try to keep the redness off of their faces, to no avail. There’s still a loose note of the violin and an opera singer from their vantage point outside the restaurant, and they think that if it was so Earthly possible, they could just stay here forever. If Crowley was a Lesser Demon, one who took more pleasure in the temptations than who he really is, he could have convinced Aziraphale to let time tick more slowly, because the sunset was just that good.

The angel shakes his head at Crowley as the sun begins to set. The sky is more purple than any other colour and Aziraphale spies upon the demon’s golden complexion in all its glory. More often than not the demon Crowley was akin to a marble bust. His skin was spotless and reminded Aziraphale of a marble bust still cool to the touch. Crowley’s skin was an intricate and flawless design of alabaster skin and lilac veins, unscarred even after the French Revolution. The angel had been good friends with Michelangelo and was sipping on white wine while  _ David  _ was being carved, and it still bore no comparison to the smooth, marble skin of the demon Crowley.

Both of them are too drunk for their own good, but the apocalypse had come and gone and it was one of those nights when sobering up was the devil’s advocate. These were the nights that they had come to cherish, ones comprised of well-rehearsed music and the right amount of mindless chatter to keep the nightmares at bay.

Aziraphale is stumbling over his words and his steps. He could barely make it out of the parking lot without tripping over a stray ivy vine or a cinderblock garden of wildflowers and crocus leaves poking out. His footing feels hazy as the demon looks at him with an indecipherable expression.

“Angel.” The demon said, snapping his fingers quickly and calling Aziraphale’s attention. He smelled like alcohol but also like garden plants. He smelled nothing like the angel, who too smelled like alcohol but like coffee and unsold books instead.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. The demon extended a perfectly manicured hand. 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow as he felt his cheeks flush. 

The demon let out a huff of air, making puffs of steam in the cooling night air, the sun fully set behind him. “Do I have to say it?” He said bluntly, deciding to sober up so at least one of them wouldn’t get inconveniently discorporated.

He grabbed hold of Aziraphale’s hand. The angel flipped his hand over and intertwined their fingers together as if they had done it a million times before. It felt like muscle memory to know someone’s body so intimately, but perhaps it was a memory constructed over centuries of looking at someone from afar. Something inside Aziraphale was begging him to sober up, but he liked this in-between state of vanilla twilight and sparkling golden bubbles floating in his lungs.

The demon dragged Aziraphale to the bus stop and didn’t let go of his hand. The angel’s hand was warm to the touch as Crowley rubbed circles around his palm. He didn’t even let go of his hand when they got on the bus.

It was only when the bus began to pick up speed did Crowley drop Aziraphale’s hand. He gingerly took off his sunglasses and stared directly into the angel’s eyes. It felt like staring into heaven’s light itself.

“Y’know I’m here for you, right angel?” Crowley slurred, in his half-sober stupor.

The angel knows.

**2\. tell me more**

There is a quiet bookshop more closed than open in the very heart of London that became an enigma to those who have stuck around long enough to realize it. It smelled of coffee but liquids were prohibited. No passerby has ever claimed to have seen a human inside the bookstore, and yet it had been open longer than they were alive. 

And for that matter, such a passerby was correct. It was half-past ten on an inconspicuous Tuesday morning, and there was not a human in the bookstore. There was, however, a fidgety demon was sitting in one of those legitimately vintage plush chairs with his legs draped over the armrests reading an art book he had no particular interest in and an angel spritzing one of the houseplants that Crowley brought over ten minutes earlier.

The plant was leafy green and looked luminescent compared to the muted tones of beige that were scattered throughout the store. There was hardly any rose coloured hues or cerulean tones that decorated the space, much less the bright emerald green of the plant. 

The angel put down the plant mister and took a seat opposite Crowley. He wiped a thin layer of sweat from his brow, but as he was going through with the motion, he supposed that it was possible to just miracle it away instead.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, looking over to Crowley who was observing a painting in an art book he had found draped on one of the many bookshelves in the shop. “Do you suppose you could tell me  _ why  _ you brought a plant over?” The angel asked.

Crowley didn’t lift his head from above the book he was pretending to read, instead opting to raise his sunglasses from where they were resting on top of his head, pushing back stray hairs that looked almost golden in the sunlight. There was a tree that covered most of the window’s view in the eastern part of the room, and a bird fluttering in the branches shook the bright green leaves tumultuously. “Probably not.” the demon responded, in the same sly way that Aziraphale supposed he might never get used to.

The angel shrugged nonchalantly and picked up a poetry book he had been reading earlier in the morning before his routine of events was disrupted by a certain demon at his doorstep with a larger than life houseplant he really had no room for. 

“Watch out,” Crowley said, gesturing vaguely with feathery waving motions to the table beside Aziraphale’s chair without lifting his head. 

The angel looked at what Crowley was gesturing to, which was an amber coloured mug filled with still warm cocoa from earlier in the morning teetering haphazardly on the edge of the table. “Thanks,” Aziraphale replied, to which the demon did not comment. He blinked at Crowley for a moment longer than necessary and then moved the cup to a more stable position.

The two of them stayed like that for many more moments. Since deciding very definitively that they were on no one else’s side but their own, the demon and the angel have been trying to make up for six thousand years of lost time. That meant nights spent at the Ritz and other little restaurants that Aziraphale had never heard of and swore Crowley miracled up in front of his very eyes. They watched dramatic recreations of  _ Othello  _ and  _ A Midsummers Night’s dream _ , though both of them agreed that nothing would be better than the original.

And yet even after all those things, what Crowley enjoyed most of all was sitting in the angel Aziraphale’s bookshop. What he liked more than anything (except the angel himself, of course) was the silence. His glitzy modern London apartment had an air conditioner and a heater and a dozen newfangled things that he could never have the time to figure out. The only thing he could be for certain was that it made a subtle humming sound in the background.

The quaint bookshop for supernatural beings and other occult forces had nothing of the sort. It had a diffuser somewhere on the register that made the room smell like grapefruit and bergamot, but it made no sound. It was the only place in the whole city that felt as quiet as heaven. Not that the demon remembers heaven all that much, but if he could remember just one thing, it would be the silence itself.

It must have been hours later when Crowley poked out from over the singular page he had zoned out on. The angel opposite him was thoroughly engrossed in a poetry book he had been lost for the past week or so.

Aziraphale had been reading the same first edition of John Keats’ book for an aeon now, but it was something he could never get tired of reading. He instantly put the book down when he could feel the snakelike eyes of his friend trailing him. He could always tell when Crowley was watching him. He much preferred Crowley without the onyx coloured sunglasses. The angel felt as if he couldn’t tell what Crowley’s true intentions were when he had the glasses on.

And besides, Aziraphale like Crowley’s eyes. He didn’t like  _ demon  _ eyes in particular, but he had taken a liking to this one demon’s eyes. They were bright yellow, but they were almost the colour of sunsets in the right light. And many a watcher had come to believe that the centres of the demon Crowley’s eyes were an impossibly black void that opened up directly to the gates of hell, but they really were just a dark hazel.

The angel put his book pages down onto his lap looking up at Crowley. 

Crowley shrugged as he shifted in the seat and put his chin on his palm. “What are you reading?” He asked.

“Poem,” Aziraphale said simply, lifting up the pages and looking for the page he had bookmarked with a dog-eared fold in the corner of the page. “ _ Darkling, I listen. And, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, _ ” the angel trailed off, looking intently at Crowley.

The demon made a waving motion in the air. “Go on.” He said softly, without his trademark snark and sarcasm. “Tell me more.”

Aziraphale looked back down and rifled through the pages. Most of his books smelled like something long forgotten, like the times they were written or spilt coffee. But this one very particular book he had always kept on the table beside his chair smelled like  _ Crowley _ . It smelled like his expensive perfume and houseplants and shampoo that he would always just catch a whiff of. It smelled like home.

The angel cleared his throat.

“ _ Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad in such an ecstasy! _ ” Aziraphale continued softly.

Aziraphale looked back up at the demon, who was watching him read intently, snakelike eyes following along to every syllable that escaped his lips.

“ _ Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod. _ ” He finished, in a revered tone that he reserved only for talking about God herself and well-worn poetry novellas.

Crowley smiled. He looked more human than snake these days.

**3\. don’t forget your jacket**

Summer had come and gone almost as quick as Armageddon had been avoided and suddenly the drawling heat of the afternoons had dwindled into a slow growing spread of cool night air and chilly morning breezes. The leaves were browning and the world was turning into the colours of fire and flame, but also of warmth and something sweeter. It was Crowley’s favourite season since he had invented the pumpkin spice latte. It was only a couple days after the apocalypse mishap, and Crowley and Aziraphale were going to watch a play.

The demon was milling about the second floor flat of Aziraphale’s bookshop, spritzing the second houseplant he had brought over whilst the angel was reading something of unimportance. There was soft music emanating from a Bluetooth speaker which Crowley had brought over since in his frustration over the record player one of the pieces of vinyl had broken. And besides, Bach was so much better on Spotify Premium than on vinyl.

“I don’t understand why you come here  _ just  _ to water the plants. I am perfectly capable of misting them myself.” The angel quipped, flailing the plant mister about in his hand. Crowley stared pointedly at Aziraphale.

“When I dropped off my  _ monstera  _ plant you put it in direct sunlight.” The demon drawled, staring at Aziraphale with large unblinking eyes. “Really, angel. I expected more from you.” The plant behind Crowley seemed to shake in response to the demon’s words. 

Aziraphale flattened his lips into a thin line. “Well. We really ought to be getting ready for the  _ Palladium _ . Are you really going to make it back to your flat in time?”

Crowley blinked at the angel and snapped his fingers. “Oh look!” He said enthusiastically, walking into Aziraphale’s room and flinging open the closet. He pulled out a hanger containing one impeccably fitted all black suit and a new pair of sunglasses with golden rims. “Looks like there’s no need to go back to my place after all.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley for a moment or two. “If you really want to stay over at my place more, I could always miracle up a bedroom for you to stay in.”

Crowley shut the door behind him, the sound resounding throughout the small apartment. “Don’t be daft, angel. I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

“Crowley,” the angel began, to which he got cut off by Crowley.

Crowley pointed to the large grandfather clock. “Almost time to get ready now.” He said, wiggling a finger back and forth before snapping his fingers once more and instantly getting dressed in his all black suit.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley quietly. “You know how I feel about miracling things all willy-nilly. It’s a  _ waste _ .” He said, rising from his seat on the couch and walking to his wardrobe. He picked out another flawless linen suit and began ruffling up his hair. He could see Crowley sitting on the couch from the reflection in the mirror. 

“Is it any good?” The demon asked Aziraphale from his spot on the couch. “ _ Hamilton. _ ” 

Aziraphale shrugged as he looped the bow tie around his neck. “I’ve heard it is well renowned. Very historically accurate.”

“Ngk,” Crowley replied, twisting around a strand of his hair. “I slept through most of the revolution. Humans got up to enough trouble without me.”

“I shouldn’t know either. Too busy learning the Gavotte, I believe.” Aziraphale replied, turning around to face the demon. Even in this weather, the flat was still warm.

He wondered for a fleeting moment if the warmth came from Crowley himself. His skin was cool to the touch and yet every time the angel was around him, there was always a bubble of comfortable warmth that followed him. 

Crowley was examining his perfectly polished nails from his seat on the couch while Aziraphale was fussing with his appearance. 

After a moment, Crowley stood up and faced Aziraphale. “Ready?” He asked.

Aziraphale nodded as they walked to the exit. He unlocked the door and walked out onto the pavement as the duo was greeted by a gust of autumn air.

“Oi,” Crowley said, snapping his fingers and tapping the angel on the shoulder. Aziraphale turned back and looked at Crowley. The demon reached to the coathanger and threw a woollen coat into the angel’s arms. “Don’t forget your jacket. ‘S cold out there.”

“Thanks,” Aziraphale replied, feeling warmer both inside and out.

**4\. how are you, really?**

On most evenings the demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale would dress to the nines and find the most ostentatious and flamboyant restaurants to dine at, but on this one particular Thursday evening, inbetween twilight and pitch dark oblivion, both the demon and the angel were feeling particularly reluctant to leave the relative safe warmth of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just order from  _ Uber eats.  _ I invented it, you know.” Crowley yelled over to Aziraphale, refusing to leave the warmth of the nest he had built up which comprised of woollen blankets and fuzzy sheets.

Aziraphale poked his head through from the other room. “Tempted the founders, did you?” He teased, to which the demon took in stride and nodded enthusiastically. He walked over to the living room where Crowley was sitting and sat across from him. “Besides,  _ Abruzzi  _ doesn’t deliver on Uber eats. I’ll just pop in and order a takeaway. I won’t be long.” He said with a shrug and making his way to the exit.

Crowley looked at the angel with a grimace and reached over to turn on the TV with the remote. “Alright.” He said, standing up and walking over to Aziraphale to lock to door on his way out. “D’you want me to put on some tea for when you get back?”

The angel blinked back at Crowley wordlessly. “Yes… actually. I’d like that quite a bit.”

Crowley nodded and closed the door on him, and then wandered into the kitchen. Though Aziraphale would never admit to it, the demon was fairly certain his friend had a tea hoarding addiction. In just one cupboard alone Aziraphale had a collection of teas from every region and century. Crowley picked out the first box he set his eyes on, a small yellowing box of Darjeeling imperial tea and put it in a pot to steep.

He took a look around the quaint flat while the tea began to steep and drummed his fingers atop the granite countertop. There were houseplants and mugs and thick wool blankets that were not the property of Aziraphale. They were Crowley’s belongings, and Crowley’s clothes, and his dishes, and his cassettes…

_ Fuck. _

He didn’t realize when it happened exactly, but now that he had come to think of it, Crowley couldn’t think of the last time he had spent the night over at his flat. He didn’t know when it happened, but suddenly he had found a home in Aziraphale’s flat.

He was still thinking of this startling realization by the time Aziraphale had turned the key over in the lock with armfuls of brilliant smelling main courses and dessert.

* * *

“So,” Crowley said, through bites of fettuccine, “How was it?”

The angel quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” He asked.

Crowley shrugged. “Seem awfully quiet.” He said, poking at the food on his plate. “Usually you’re on a tangent about how the flavours mix together or some bollocks.”

“I don’t  _ go on a tangent _ !” Aziraphale quipped back.

The demon furrowed his eyebrows together and stared at Aziraphale in concentration. “Angel,” He tried softer, “How are you, really?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and then let out a resigned sigh. “They didn’t want to serve me. Guess they don’t serve takeaway.” He said with a shrug.

Crowley let out a snort of laughter. “What d’you mean ‘ _ they didn’t want to serve you?’  _ could they sense your occultism?” He said incredulously.

“For the last time,” Aziraphale said, setting down his silverware onto his ceramic plate. “I’m  _ ethereal,  _ not occult.”

“Ngk,” Crowley shrugged through mouthfuls of the pasta. “Same difference.”

Aziraphale nodded. “They said they didn’t serve  _ my kind _ . Whatever that means.”

Both the demon and the angel knew exactly what that meant, even if it wasn’t exactly true.

Crowley sighed. “So I’m guessing this isn’t food from the  _ Abruzzi _ ?” 

Aziraphale shook his head with a mournful smile. “Nope. Plates of pasta and pizzas from  _ Pizza Express. _ ”

Crowley shrugged and lifted his teacup. “At least the tea is good.” He said with a smirk.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, lifting his own teacup and clinking it onto the demon’s own. “And the company is even better.”

**5\. let’s sleep in today**

There were many admirable traits that the demon Crowley found pleasing about the personality of his good friend Aziraphale, but the one peeve that Crowley had with Aziraphale was that for whatever reason the angel had decided on, he had found it acceptable to wake up at six in the  _ blessed  _ morning.

The demon peeked out from his spot on the couch, which was faring well even with the addition of a brilliantly heavy goose down duvet. “What the  _ heaven  _ are you doing up so early?” Crowley whined. “The bookshop doesn’t even open for five more hours!” He exclaimed.

Aziraphale walked past the demon’s line of sight carrying stacks of books. “Time to do inventory, my dear!”

Crowley groaned and ran his fingers through his auburn hair. “You never sell anything  _ anyways _ .” He said, springing to his feet and sliding in front of Aziraphale’s pathway. “C’mon, angel. I’m  _ exhausted. _ ”

Aziraphale looked at the demon and set his pile of books down. “I don’t understand why you won’t let me miracle a bedroom beside mine.”

Crowley closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. “That’s not the problem, angel.” The demon said exasperatedly. “The problem is that you think it’s polite to wake up all the angels and saints before they have time to get their beauty sleep!” He exclaimed.

Aziraphale stared at the demon blankly. “ _ Please,  _ Aziraphale.” Crowley tried again, taking the angel’s hand as if it was something they did on a regular basis. “Let’s sleep in today.” He offered.

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed as Crowley could almost  _ see  _ an idea forming in the angel’s mind. And Crowley was almost certain it was an idea that he would not like. 

And then at an instant, Aziraphale dragged Crowley by the hand into his bedroom.

“Where are you taking me?” Crowley asked incredulously, as Aziraphale plopped down onto his soft bed with Crowley following suit.

“Isn’t this so much better?” Aziraphale said with a fiendish glint in his eye. 

Crowley pulled a face. “What? Rubbing noses with you?”

Aziraphale pulled back a little more so he could see more of Crowley’s face, painted gold in the morning sun. “Sleeping in a proper bed.”

Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand and stared at him. “The couch is perfectly fine. And I really don’t stay in your flat all that often.” He said, lying to himself.

The angel raised an eyebrow as the two of them fell silent.

“Fine.” Crowley ceded. “It is better. Did you spell this bed squishy?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You just haven’t slept in a proper bed.” He replied as they watched the dust motes fill the air, backs touching the bed and eyes up to the ceiling.

After a long while, Crowley turned on his side. “Would you really not have come with me? To Alpha Centauri?”

Aziraphale let out a breath of air, sitting up to look down at Crowley. “If it really came to that…” He trailed off, watching as the demon hung onto his every word. “I suppose I  _ would  _ come with you.” The angel said.

Crowley nodded his head as the angel continued. “But in all honesty? I like Earth.” He said with a shrug.

Crowley sat up and looked at Aziraphale. “So you wouldn’t have come to Alpha Centauri with me?” He asked.

The angel’s eyes went big. “No, I would have! I like Earth… but I like it more with you in it.” He replied quietly.

Crowley blinked at Aziraphale for what felt like an eternity. And then as quick as it took to saunter down from heaven, the demon kissed the angel.

It was messy and a little awkward because both of them had no prior experience. But there was something honest and quiet and it felt more and more like home.

When they pulled away, the demon squinted at Aziraphale. “‘Bout time I did that, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh Crowley.” He said with a satisfied smile. “Won’t you just shut up and kiss me?”

Crowley did.

**+1. i love you**

Another winter had come and gone with melting frost and the first days of spring with brilliant blooming wildflowers growing even within the cracks of the cinderblock pavement. At long last, it finally felt like the apocalypse-that-didn’t was finally past them.

Life had felt like it was starting over for the demon and the angel. In the early days, they would wake up with their very being trembling with dread that both heaven and hell would shake the earth and reclaim their bodies, but seasons changed and that never seemed to be the case. And as for other matters, both Aziraphale and Crowley agreed that it was utter nonsense to stop dancing around the truth. By default, it also meant that it was utter nonsense that Crowley was still kipping on the couch when there was a perfectly well and fine bed down the hall.

Just as humans were made for each other were Aziraphale and Crowley made for one another. Aziraphale loved a demon, which in turn meant he loved verdant houseplants, gritty 70s rock, an affinity for vintage clothing, Bentley cars going full speed, and a kind and earnest heart. Crowley loved an angel, which in turn meant he loved faded old books, the spirit of giving, and the promise of a new sunrise every morning.

Crowley blinked his snakelike eyes in the early morning sun as he rolled over on his side to see a still sleeping angel right beside him.

He stayed like this for what felt like a century until Aziraphale groggily opened one eye. “Are you really planning on staring at me the whole day?” He asked.

The demon smirked. “As long as it takes, angel.” He said slyly.

Aziraphale rubbed at his eyes and sat up, not before kissing Crowley on the cheek.

Crowley smiled as he got out of bed after the angel. “Well, good morning to you too.” He replied.

The duo got on with their day. They made two cups of tea and two sour cherry scones. (They were Aziraphale’s favourite. They were Crowley’s favourite too, though he would never admit it.) They sat opposite each other in the sitting room with Crowley on a page of that timeless John Keats novel that Aziraphale had pestered him into reading.

“How do you like it?” Aziraphale asked through sips of his ceylon tea.

Crowley shrugged. “A little too  _ frivolous _ for my liking.”

“It’s John Keats! Keats can’t be  _ frivolous _ !” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley set the book down. “Sorry, angel. Perhaps that was the reason why I slept through the century.” He teased with a smile.

The angel waved his hand. “Please. You woke up for the French Revolution.” He replied.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “To save your poor soul from discorporating!” He exclaimed. “ _ Oh, imagine the paperwork!”  _ He replied, doing his best imitation of the angel Aziraphale’s voice.

Aziraphale smiled. “Never did thank you for saving me that time.” He replied.

The demon frowned. “No need to.” He said nonchalantly. “We got crepes after, didn’t we?”

Aziraphale nodded as the room went silent.

“Was that when you knew?” The angel asked.

Crowley folded his arms. “Knew what?”

“Knew that you loved me.”

Crowley frowned. “Who said anything about  _ love _ , my darling angel?” He teased with a grin.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Was it with the books? And the Nazis? And that blasted church?”

Crowley’s frown deepened. “Don’t sell yourself short.” The demon replied, his voice suddenly dropping in volume. “It was when you sheltered me during that rain, I think.”

“Two years ago? In  _ Oxford? _ ” Aziraphale asked in surprise.

Crowley dropped his head in his hands. “How could someone as smart as you be so bloody stupid? The  _ first  _ rain, you wanker.”

The angel’s face dropped. “Oh.” He exclaimed, the room falling silent once more.

“I love you too, my dear.” The angel responded after a short pause. Crowley kept his arms folded as Aziraphale stared at him.

“Do you want to hear me say it?” Crowley asked with a raised eyebrow. The angel stayed silent.

“I love you, angel. Of  _ course  _ I love you. Are you mad?”

Aziraphale stood up and kissed Crowley on the cheek. 

“Couldn’t be happier.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! follow me on twitter @prophetdjh :)


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